


In the lowland plot I was free

by princerai



Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Amnesia, Canonical Character Death, Fix-It of Sorts, Gardens & Gardening, Grammar Fuckery For Stylistic Purposes, M/M, POV Second Person, Post-Infinity War, Random Pet Appears For Fluffy Reasons, Resurrection, Self-Indulgent, Sibling Incest, but it's ok they get better, farming, handwavey magic, post-IW
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-17
Updated: 2018-05-17
Packaged: 2019-05-08 08:55:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14690718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/princerai/pseuds/princerai
Summary: “i could never tire of you.”his hand upon your cheek brings damp earth with it, and it clings to the fine hairs dusting your face.you want to be stronger already for him, just to see that eye a little lighter.-There's a body in the garden. Thor thinks it may be alive.





	In the lowland plot I was free

**Author's Note:**

> very self indulgent, not really going for anything in super particular, i just know that this is inspired by 'work song' by hozier which is where the title comes from. hearing it after infinity war gave me ideas.
> 
> also, if it wasn't clear, infinity war spoilers lay ahead. enjoy!

you awaken to the smell of wet earth and ozone. 

the sun has an eye and it pierces deep into your chest, a blade, and the weight of its stare pulls black death from your lungs. you gag, you cough, you choke, and it trickles from your mouth, down the sides of your face, into the hollows of your cheeks.

"i've got you."

the sun bears down on you. your skin is ice, and so it brings an unbearable heat. you sob.

"no, no, it's okay, i've got you."

joints crack, and your fingers curl into the sun. cloth. red fabric. it carries the feeling that you _should_ remember its importance but you do not. you're sobbing again and choking on the ink sloshing around in your throat, and you're forced into sitting up, though your terrible spine demands you lay back and rot into the earth. 

the sun's hand is a sizzling brand against your back. you're shivering.

"i'll fix this. it's okay. just, let me, let me hold you, i've got you..."

it's as though you are light as air. the sun hoists you into his arms, and you discover that there is a heart beneath its strong breast- and you are starting to think this maybe isn't a literal sun and you're half-mad from hunger and oh, oh, you are so fucking hungry, a pit sits inside of you devouring your organs, swallowing you up from within...

"food," you manage, past the last strands and globs of black hanging onto your throat. you cough once more, and again- "food, please..."

"soon."

there are lips upon your forehead, so, so hot. 

long blades of yellow rise from the earth- grain, you think, but you can't be sure, can't seem to blink the fog from your useless eyes. you scrape at your face, rubbing into your eyes and find it's no use, and all at once it doesn't matter- you're inside, somewhere, clay fills your lungs and you're coughing, again. 

soft cotton linens, white, pure, a perfect nest. you're asked if you want more pillows or blankets and you don't really know, so you simply lie there, silent. 

clattering in the distance. the sun is gone. you need to call it- him something else soon. 

but it fits, somehow. 

a spoon appears at your lips, and the sun has returned, taking care not to drip lukewarm broth onto your skin. you are rather naked so the effort is appreciated. you'd ask for clothes except the idea of anything more than these linens touching you is _painful_. 

you will your eyes to focus. 

the sun is beautiful today.

"who are you?"

the words gurgle and catch in your throat, and he places his broad hand on your heart.

"don't speak."

"who are you?" you insist, and you find the strength to touch this strong hand lying upon you. it may as well be the paw of a lion. you trace the veins, the knuckles, the familiar shape.

the sun has a blue eye, like someone has come and punched a crater straight through to reveal the sky. 

it gleams, like there might be tears, til he looks away and now you'll never know.

"i'm ... i'm thor. and you are loki."

loki, and thor. thor, and loki.

you believe him, because it feels right, it feels like hands slotting together perfectly, shards of glass fitting into a single space.

he feels right. 

x

you remember how to have a body again.

it's gradual. flexing your fingertips. closing your hands. lifting those hands and lifting yourself- all in one day, and you're sleeping for hours afterward. no amount of soup seems to get your energy up; it's all force of stubborn will.

thor catches you one morning sitting up, and rushes you, a hand at your back. his hands are so, so warm still, but your skin can take it now, even craves his touch. his presence breaks the monotony of the day, where you lay gazing into the silt gray ceiling, or worse- you fall into a sleep where you find you cannot breathe, your throat is crumpling beneath an unyielding pressure, and you wake gasping.

you shove his hand away, and he jolts back, stares in shock as you manage to remain upright all on your own. then, slowly, he reminds you again of the sun, face splitting into a brilliant grin.

"you're getting better."

"doesn't feel like it," you grouse, but he's right. you feel shitty, still, and expect the shittiness to pervade as shittiness tends to, but you've got feet on the ground and that's more than yesterday, and it's certainly more than that first dizzy morning. 

his grin is infectious. you hate him a little for it. there is a time and place for marinating in one's misery, after all.

thor keeps bringing you soup. it's all you can take. salty broth that tastes of nature. you come to be sick of it sooner than later and he apologizes for it, but it's all he can think to make for you just now. 

"until your throat recovers, i-"

"what happened to my throat?"

you ask too many questions, you can tell. he doesn't look at you, takes too long chasing an errant soft piece of something green in the soup with the spoon.

"thor."

"there was an accident. someone- it- they- there was a..."

he trips all over himself searching for a lie. you think of your dreams.

"did somebody strangle me?"

the bowl clatters to the floor. he doesn't go after it, just stares at the spot it makes on the floor, arms of liquid stretching out into an odd and random shape. it reminds you of a lily's silhouette. 

"yes," he answers, voice caught in a hollow place between his mouth and chest.

"why?"

you grasp at answers while they lay before you in the shaky expanse of his vulnerability. maybe you'll feel bad for taking advantage later. not now.

"they ... were a senseless killer. nothing more. all that matters is that they failed."

there is more to it. but thor is on his hands and knees wiping up the mess and you know that while it isn't the full truth, it is still the truth.

he rescued you. you won't make him hurt more than you must.

x

your world is a single room. 

the bed, a cot, comfortable for all its shortcomings because of the dozen pillows he has procured for you- and you have a wall you can huddle up to when you're sick of the room, rough to the touch, gray brick.

beyond the bed is a simple oak table, old, dusty, fit to give any innocent hand a series of splinters, and its accompanying chair. they sit out on a round shag rug, turned tan from tracked dirt and mud. its original light blue coloring only makes itself known under the light of the hearth, where a pot always sits, always full of salty broth, just for you. 

that's all. beyond that, it's just a wooden door, rickety, too small, drawing in a draft from beneath. thor often stuffs the space full of towels to keep the night air out. 

your world is very small and very simple and much as that annoys you- you know it's likely for the best. 

still, when he leaves your side, your imagination runs wild. 

you become familiar with thor's comings and goings. he is in tune with the shifting of the light through the door- just before golden beams come crawling into the room, he vanishes, and it isn't til those beams lie parallel to the hearth that he returns smelling of earth and sweat.

you think of summer, of backbreaking labor, knees carving rounded shapes into the mud, of seeds- and you aren't wrong, you find, when you manage to catch him between outings. he stands at the hearth, swiping a damp towel over his forehead. your eyes catch on a single drop of sweat trickling from beneath his ear, past his strong jaw, where his beard grows thicker every day. 

"where is it that you go, when you are not here?"

he raises an eyebrow at you, like he's surprised it's taken you this long to ask. bit hard to go chatting him up when he always scolds you into resting your voice.

"to our gardens."

the door stands open, inviting in a breeze that smells sweet, crisp. your stomach grumbles at the thought of solid, proper food, something that isn't fucking soup. all the same, your scratchy throat contracts in disgust.

"how can they be our gardens if you are the only one who walks among them?"

you don't know why you're being difficult. maybe just to make him smile. you're successful, even if he hides it behind his sweat-cloth. 

"what is mine is yours."

"why?"

you're not being difficult then; it's a genuine question. you are a burden, and not much else at this moment. 

his single eye flits over you.

(you itch to know, what happened to the other one, why the site of curling black dead flesh beneath the patch makes you think, 'sister'-)

"would you like to see the outside today?"

your curiosity is too great for you to pursue the unanswered previous question. giving him an eager nod, you swing your legs over the side of the bed, and he is instantly at your side, urging you to take your time.

"let me-"

"thor, no, i can handle this."

"but-"

that first lurch forward rattles through your bones— your head is full of cotton and you slap a hand to your ear to keep it from tumbling out onto the floor. of course that makes no sense, you know that but you shake your head, because that feels better, you just need to keep your hand there and you’ll be alright. 

“come on,” you urge thor forward. “if you must lead the way then _go_ , would you?”

his tiny twitch of a smile shines of nostalgia and affection. you’d see him smile like that always if you could figure out how to freeze the sight in time.

every other step, your accursed knees threaten to buckle and leave you sprawled on the floor. his warm, warm hand acts as an anchor, keeping your spine straight, your head high. 

“i’ve got you,” he reassures you, and you believe him. 

beyond the open door lies nothing but green. 

green life, shining beneath the kiss of the summer sun, lounging upon loamy earth, and it welcomes you with open fresh arms that go grasping into your lungs. you find you can really, truly _breathe_. 

he guides you down a safe patch of stones, laid down for feet to pass through without harming his delicate work. he shows you where he keeps the vegetables that appear in your soup every so often. they gleam, putting jewels to shame in their brilliance. 

“this is all your work?” you blink your disbelief, wondering just where the gardens end. some childish creature in you amuses itself thinking of this world as nothing but his garden, kept and tended to by the gentlest, strongest hands. 

he bows his head, too modest, and you shake your own at him. 

“why? surely it is exhausting.”

“of course. that’s part of the appeal, to be truthful,” thor says, going down on one knee to take a pair of ragged leaves in his grasp. they regain their luster, glowing with life, and when he gives the leaves a tug, you see that it is a carrot— a large one at that, thicker than two of his impressive fingers pressed together. “if i should be tired just so that these little ones will grow up the best they can be? all the better. i can be tired for a reason.”

he holds the carrot out to you, and it lays perfectly in your hands. soil wedges into the etchings of your palms, wet and lively. 

“surely you are exhausted just looking after me,” you tease, watching him go for another carrot— he freezes, and rises up again to meet your eyes. 

it’s funny, how he pins you in place with the work of a single eye. an absent thought; perhaps he is only permitted one, lest he break the world in two with a gaze so burdened and yet kind. 

“i could never tire of you.”

his hand upon your cheek brings damp earth with it, and it clings to the fine hairs dusting your face. 

you make an excuse to kneel, to help him, and he fusses, acts like he didn’t just run you through with his gaze; ‘are you strong enough?’

‘of course’ is your answer, in taking the carrots that he hands you— and no, of course not, you're trembling where you sit but—

you want to be stronger already for him, just to see that eye a little lighter.

x

thor invites you into the gardens every morning now. he leaves just before sunrise, when you see a faint molten glow at the bottom of the door. 

sometimes you sleep right through his invitation- or pretend to.

but boredom unfortunately has taken its toll, and you would never say so but you crave the company. his silence is a good silence, better than the silence of fixing the ceiling with your listless stare. 

he has you hold the vegetables and fruits he picks, and when it comes time to replant, you take a certain sort of joy in opening the earth to the seeds. satisfying, to see the seed vanish beneath the soil and know it will emerge only when it is good and ready. reminds you much of yourself.

rain is never in short supply. you come to learn very fast, he is no mere man, although you knew that just looking at him. he will reach to the heavens, opening a great fist and imploring the clouds for their help- and help they do. 

"we are gods," he explains, like it's just that fucking simple.

"i don't feel much like a god," you confess, and he takes your hands in the rain, lets blue tiny bolts lick across from his fingers to yours.

"you will."

and sometimes, you do, when you emerge from the tiny wooden cabin to find that your seeds have emerged overnight, grown twice their original size, have become /beautiful/, and you know you helped in that, laying the seeds, loving them.

it isn't long before he catches you out of bed first one early dawn, and he doesn't say anything but his infuriating smile presses a warm shape into the back of your head. 

he sits by the hearth, and you leave him there, strolling in bare feet over the stone and dirt. dew soaks your toes, leaves cold seeping into your bones, but you keep walking, following the long, long path of greenery. 

it isn't until you're finally coming to his rows of radishes that you realize, he isn't there with you.

you do feel it, though, the presence of- _something_ , and you think of the creature he spoke of, quick to shove the memory away, pretending it does not exist, and you touch your throat, you think of a hand closing around it- 

and you see a nearby tomato vine tremble, shaken by tiny, tiny paws.

a tabby kitten emerges, her clumsy paws slipping through the rain-damp soil. her whiskers quiver, nose twitching to the air, and she turns her huge round gaze upon you. 

how your gut senses could have ever mistaken her for a threat is beyond you. it’s a pitiful thing, skinny to the point of losing all charm— where it should be round in its youth, bones jut out, announcing its struggle for life. 

the idiotic thing doesn’t even fight your grasp when you take it by the scruff and scurry it away, safe against your heart. 

by all means it would be kinder to let it die, would it not?

“thor, _thor_ —“

and yet-

your urgency brings him rushing to the doorway long before you reach it. he meets you halfway, a hot flush of panic falling over his cheeks, til he sees what lies within your arms. he stares, mystified. 

“how on earth—“

“do we have milk? meat? anything?”

his gaze flits back up to you, and he nods, before reaching to take the kitten from you. you're loathe to let it go but you trust him sooner with the poor thing when you still tremble when you walk. 

you linger in the doorway, trying your best not to hover and utterly failing, but it's not exactly your fault when this room is so goddamn small. he moves about the room, small steps, taking care not to jostle the precious cargo tucked against his bicep. one moment he's in the adjacent room, an even tinier closet-like space where he stores away food- and he returns to perch on your cot, holding a jug, muttering something about villages he can fly to (alright so he can _fly_ and you're only just finding out about that, okay) and that they give him goat milk for his vegetables sometimes and he just keeps babbling, hitting something of a mental well. 

"it's still small enough to be suckling," you point out, and before you can stop yourself, you're at his side, guiding his fingertips to the jug. "just a bit on your fingers, and offer..."

he listens. white droplets hang from his fingertips, streaming down the hard lines of his skin. tucking the kitten against his heart, he holds the milk out for her to sniff. it doesn't take her long to realize what's being offered, and when she does, she sucks it down, greedy.

thor is patient, letting her lap up her fill and giving more when she mewls. simply lying in his arms brings light to her once dull gaze. her paws, already so small, come up to wrap around his fingers, and she hugs tight, keeping the precious milk close.

the anxiety that lined his face melts in an instant, and he glows, and you... you're shaking, and you can't place why.

he's at his best, here, tender, kind, for the sake of being kind, and he is the sun again, and you're shrinking, flushed and warm beneath his presence. when you laid under the sun that first day you were overcome, too broken to think on why you might see him as the sun, but you're sitting upright, looking at him in all his beauty- physical, and within the soul- and you don't have an exact answer.

you just know you want to touch the sun and come away changed.

"thor."

his single eye falls to you. his mouth parts, almost like an invitation.

you take the invitation, gladly. 

the heat that rolls off of him, it is warmer than any embrace, warmer than the sunbeams pouring in through the open door, warmer than the summer nights you spend looking to the ceiling wondering why you are here and you think you know why, in his kiss. 

you pull back. the kitten has fallen asleep in the safe curl of his elbow. 

thor returned your kiss, but his gaze has fallen to the floor. 

"loki?"

(maybe now he will ask you to leave. your jaw grits, and there are a dozen arguments stringing through your head, running in loops. you refuse. you _refuse_ -)

"if we were brothers ... well, what would you think of that?"

the moment he says it, you know it to be the truth. it sits in your gut, whole, spreading to your lungs, to your heart, where it pumps the knowledge through your body and you _know_. it is a part of you. an inherent truth. 

you're his brother. and you would kiss him again for it.

"i don't know," you lie. "but the fact that you ask makes me think we are."

he's quiet. it's fucking agonizing. if he didn't have a small cat in his arm you might have throttled him. 

"did we ever kiss like that before i died, thor?"

again, silence. you reconsider your stance on regarding throttling with small animals nearby.

"you didn't turn away, thor," you insist, and you're sitting shoulder to shoulder with him, pawing at his chiseled jaw, forcing him to meet your stare. "something tells me, we did kiss like that. and that we did not care that we were brothers."

thor's face is warm beneath your touch. you don't know when you started leaning in again. he has all the power in the world, he could wrench free of your grip.

he does not.

"did we care that we were brothers, thor?"

something like painful desire, built up over many days of having his hands all over you but never taking-

"we did not."

and he seals his lips to yours. 

you'll think of his punishment for keeping this from you for so long later.

after all, there are children present. 

x

it's a beautiful morning, as autumn comes to tease your nostrils with the beginnings of tired trees, but the morning dew still remains and hangs as fog. droplets cling to your eyelashes when you wake between the sheets.

you're no longer in the cot. his bed does not suit the weight of two bodies but neither of you really care. it's so much easier to lay together. it's simply _right_.

you’re walking more and more every passing day, and more and more often you leave without thor at your side. he always appears eventually, a golden shadow sure to appear with the rising of the sun. something about that setup tickles you. 

t’challa comes with you when she gets her strength up— that was not your idea, the name. 

“we once had a very special friend who went by the name.”

“why then do i think of black cats rather than tabby ones when i hear it?”

thor was so set on the name you couldn’t say no. besides, he does a great deal of the feeding, he earned it. 

on this day, she trots at your side, making sure to press her nose into every single solitary plant, even though she visited them all yesterday as well. it's an infuriating habit but you are patient, giving her time, never straying far.

(you asked thor, last night has he seen any other kittens? perhaps a mother?)

(he hung his head, quiet, and said he did find one.)

(the fact that it isn't here with you is explanation enough.)

seeing her flutter about, not a care in the world- you're overcome, and you suddenly find you cannot leave her to her devices, not just now. 

you kneel down, taking t'challa by the scruff and lifting her. she fits into the crook of your elbow, and there she smears soil all over your arm, but these days you seem to wear the earth as a second skin so it isn't much of a bother. 

carrying her out beyond the gardens, you walk, and walk, and walk, because there is nothing else you can do, because this is what you do best in this small, small world you have made with thor and little t'challa the kitten. not a tree in sight, no shade, just hills, hills, hills.

the air is smothering, thick upon your lungs, and sweat starts to bead upon your brow. somewhere on the horizon, past the rolling green hills, you see the sun coming to claim the morning.

and beyond the hills- dust.

dust, rubble, fallen bricks, laying in dissaray. you freeze, hugging t'challa close.

what must have once been a city lays in decay before you. it doesn't speak of disaster; you see no ashes, no burns, nothing that resembles destruction but simply rot, like the people took up all that they owned and wandered into the sunrise together. 

still.

it beckons forth visions from dreams you have denied having- fingers within your brain, pawing through the shadows of your absent memories, finding pieces, trying to slot them into place- 

(it was a city of steel)

(you stood atop a tower, your heart in your mouth, and you saw your brother)

(he implored of you, as you held a blade for him in your hand- 'we can stop this, together.')

"loki?"

the voice he bears in the present is gruff, holding a grit that the thor of your shattered memories lacks. it strikes a chord within you that you may very well be the one that roughened his voice.

his silhouette approaches, coming into definition, til he stands at your side, and you see realization dawn across his face, slowly hardening into worry.

"what is it?"

"did i do-- something terrible? like this?"

thor looks out over the fallen city, over the many pasts and lost futures that once laid there.

"...you ask many difficult questions these days."

"and you often avoid answering them," you snap, finding the answer in his hesitation, but you soften, seeing the light flickering at the edges of his eye. lightning. "i- i must have done something. did i fix it? is that why you have not turned me away? surely you would, if i was not sorry for what i did."

again, he takes too long to answer. you still wait. squeeze it out of him.

"...not exactly."

your heart sinks, and you open your mouth- til he holds up a hand, calls for your patience.

"you were never one single thing, loki. you had your days of destruction, and then you brought days of salvation, both for us, and for the people we once loved," thor carried on, every word weighing a thousand tons, but he still speaks, because you asked, because you demanded, and you know you're owed this. "you were you, loki. you could not be pinned down. and i love you for it, i love you for you- and i cannot help but forgive you your worst days, especially after losing you again."

('again'.)

(you have so many questions, but you know already, it was something you did, something foolish, and you get the feeling- something _brave_.)

"you truly are my brother," you whisper, and your hand finds the shape of his shoulder, larger than life, beyond belief, just like his heart. "if i did such things, and yet you'd forgive me."

he drops his forehead to yours. 

you don't know how long you both stand there. the sun is throwing its arms around your bodies when you emerge, and catch his single eyed gaze, where there are tears, no doubt about it.

how dare the bright orb in the sky deign to be the sun when it stands here in your arms.

t'challa mewls her protest at being pressed between you, and only then do you step back, give her the space she's afforded. 

thor stands before you, arms heavy at his sides, and he is so, so tired.

someone strong as thor does not belong here. and so, you ask, despite his protest of your ever increasing questions-

"why are you here, thor?"

he gives you the weakest laugh. it shakes through his shoulders, his chest.

"come. let's tend to the gardens. then i will tell you."

that, you can agree with.

x

he stokes the hearth hot and heavy that evening. t'challa settles by it, lying on her side, the orange flames casting beautiful shapes along the white furs of her belly. the door stands open, and you both sit in the open air, bare feet curling into the grass. 

thor has his hand upon your nape. you feel comfortably small.

_Something ... terrible happened, years ago. I could have stopped it and I— I failed. The people I called friends, we worked for years to reverse the damage and we did, for the most part, but you never came back to me. And so I could not shed the feeling that I had still failed._

_And seeing their happiness, I was selfish, and I could not stay, I took to the skies, and I just kept going, until I found this place, where by all means, the soil should not produce life. However, upon my arrival, within a day there were lilies blooming, and a single tree, the largest I had ever seen, grew at my side as I slept, and so I knew it was there for me to craft a proper home with, and I was where I belonged._

_You, I don’t know why it is that you’re here now, I don’t know why you remember none of this._

_But I don’t care. You’re here. I don’t care what you’ve done. It’s selfish, isn’t it, that I should hide away with you, away from those I call friends? They are mortal, they will likely be greying when I see them again._

_If I ever see them again._

thor speaks for what seems like forever. you hang onto every word, curl all of them into your hands, and you sigh at the end of it all, a great shuddering breath that takes your whole body by storm. 

“there is still more to this, isn’t there?”

your brother bows his heavy golden head. he takes the grass you’ve torn from the earth from you, rolls it between his calloused fingers. 

“there are eons sitting behind us and ahead of us and i do not know if i could tell you all of it.”

“tell me what is most important, then, right now, out of all of it.”

his blue eye is shining and you know it is the thousandth time you have driven him to weep, and you will make him weep a thousand more— and you shall follow in most of those times. 

you scrape your wrist over your eyes. 

“what is most important is that you are here, and that i will love you for as long as i shall live, and you shall never again be given reason to doubt that.”

the night air is stifling, humid, and it only grows more so. you have wrenched a storm from his breast and unleashed it onto the heavens above. you should not be so proud of that. 

“that sounds like a proposal of sorts.”

you tease him, because it is what comes naturally. his watery smile is lit up a brilliant white in the crack of distant lightning. 

“it could be.”

for how ever long you both are here, this place is yours and yours alone, and so, rules do not exist, and you both make it up as you go along. 

which is to say, weddings? there is no guide, no shape, nothing forbidden, just the promise that you both belong to one another. 

you should perhaps be afraid. you do not know this man. not truly. you don't know yourself. just what he has told you.

but it feels right and you know, in your heart, you spent much of your life with a great absence of rightness. 

you fold your hands over his. 

“make it so.”

it’s pouring quite suddenly, and just beneath it, you hear him chuckle, a warm and broken and grateful sound. 

his lips are a brand on your knuckles. 

X

it is simple. he has wine he made with his own two hands, says he was saving it for when you were fully recovered— and you both trade sips, and he helps you recite a prayer, one you know you’ve heard before in another life. 

he bemoans that he cannot have his friends here, and you remind him that the 'brothers' thing might ruin their enjoyment of the so-called festivities. besides- you both have t'challa, and she nestles between you both that evening, finding your combined heat alluring. 

someday you will both venture to see his mortal friends. not tomorrow. not next week. 

someday. and he will bring apologies, and he insists he will handle the matter of— of, well, you. 

(and you, too, will have to handle the matter of you.)

but til then, 

til then. 

you both let yourselves be selfish— just for a while longer.


End file.
